Wyrd Sisters

castle being such that it swayed slightly even in a gentle breeze. A small turret toppled slowly into the depths of the misty canyon.
    The Fool lay on his flagstones and shivered in his sleep. He appreciated the honor, if it was an honor, but sleeping in the corridor always made him dream of the Fools’ Guild, behind whose severe gray walls he had trembled his way through seven years of terrible tuition. The flagstones were slightly softer than the beds there, though.
    A few feet away a suit of armor jingled gently. Its pike vibrated in its mailed glove until, swishing through the night air like a swooping bat, it slid down and shattered the flagstone by the Fool’s ear.
    The Fool sat up and realized he was still shivering. So was the floor.
    In Lord Felmet’s room the shaking sent cascades of dust down from the ancient four-poster. He awoke from a dream that a great beast was tramping around the castle, and decided with horror that it might be true.
    A portrait of some long-dead king fell off the wall. The duke screamed.
    The Fool stumbled in, trying to keep his balance on a floor that was now heaving like the sea, and the duke staggered out of bed and grabbed the little man by his jerkin.
    “What’s happening?” he hissed. “Is it an earthquake?”
    “We don’t have them in these parts, my lord,” said the Fool, and was knocked aside as a chaise longue drifted slowly across the carpet.
    The duke dashed to the window, and looked out at the forests in the moonlight. The white-capped trees shook in the still night air.
    A slab of plaster crashed onto the floor. Lord Felmet spun around and this time his grip lifted the Fool a foot off the floor.
    Among the very many luxuries the duke had dispensed with in his life was that of ignorance. He liked to feel he knew what was going on. The glorious uncertainties of existence held no attraction for him.
    “It’s the witches, isn’t it?” he growled, his left cheek beginning to twitch like a landed fish. “They’re out there, aren’t they? They’re putting an Influence on the castle, aren’t they?”
    “Marry, nuncle—” the Fool began.
    “They run this country, don’t they?”
    “No, my lord, they’ve never—”
    “ Who asked you ?”
    The Fool was trembling with fear in perfect antiphase to the castle, so that he was the only thing that now appeared to be standing perfectly still.
    “Er, you did, my lord,” he quavered.
    “Are you arguing with me?”
    “No, my lord!”
    “I thought so. You’re in league with them, I suppose?”
    “My lord!” said the Fool, really shocked.
    “You’re all in league, you people!” the duke snarled. “The whole bunch of you! You’re nothing but a pack of ringleaders!”
    He flung the Fool aside and thrust the tall windows open, striding out into the freezing night air. He glared out over the sleeping kingdom.
    “Do you all hear me?” he screamed. “I am the king!”
    The shaking stopped, catching the duke off-balance. He steadied himself quickly, and brushed the plaster dust off his nightshirt.
    “Right, then,” he said.
    But this was worse. Now the forest was listening. The words he spoke vanished into a great vacuum of silence.
    There was something out there. He could feel it. It was strong enough to shake the castle, and now it was watching him, listening to him.
    The duke backed away, very carefully, fumbling behind him for the window catch. He stepped carefully into the room, shut the windows and hurriedly pulled the curtains across.
    “I am the king,” he repeated, quietly. He looked at the Fool, who felt that something was expected of him.
    The man is my lord and master, he thought. I have eaten his salt, or whatever all that business was. They told me at Guild school that a Fool should be faithful to his master until the very end, after all others have deserted him. Good or bad doesn’t come into it. Every leader needs his Fool. There is only loyalty. That’s the whole thing. Even if he is clearly three-parts bonkers, I’m his Fool until one of us dies.
    To his horror he realized the duke was weeping.
    The Fool fumbled in his sleeve and produced a rather soiled red and yellow handkerchief embroidered with bells. The duke took it with an expression of pathetic gratitude and blew his nose. Then he held it away from him and gazed at it with demented suspicion.
    “Is this a dagger I see before me?” he mumbled.
    “Um. No, my lord. It’s my handkerchief, you see. You can sort of tell the